


Posession

by bbcsherlockian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, posession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:23:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcsherlockian/pseuds/bbcsherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean under the clutches of demonic posession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Posession

Dean tries to stop breathing, tries to close up his throat from the darkness attempting to choke him, but he’s getting weaker, exhausted, and the demon is so much stronger. It wins with little effort, pushing past the boundaries of conscious thought and morality, forcing his mouth open as it steps unforgivingly inside.  


Cold.  


It’s so cold and so completely and entirely empty that it engulfs his whole chest, ripping away until there is nothing more of Dean Winchester except a walking nothingness: a peek into the other side of the universe buried underneath his sternum.  


He wants to shake with the chill, to gasp and cry out if, for nothing else, to know he is still alive. But he stands undeterred, feet planted firmly into the concrete. Was it concrete? Trivial, irrelevant. The ground beneath his feet and anything else beyond the confines of his own flesh seemed so much less important than the darkness and ice suffocating him. Dean hears a laugh inside his head as if muffled by several layers of glass, and he spins trying to follow the sound but he doesn’t spin, not really, his head is just turning, flipping with nightmarish images and reality combined so fast he doesn’t know where to turn anymore.  


The hunter only believes what he is aware of with his own two eyes, always has, always will. When faced with the confusion and disorientation of complete lack of attentiveness, anarchy rules his mind, fighting wars with himself which can neither be lost nor won.  


He’s screaming now, yelling and pounding at his skull, the marrow in his face, ripping his mind to shreds and kicking at his teeth. He should be in pain, he should be screaming and crying at being torn apart from the inside, but he remains immobile while his whole world is spinning. He can’t breathe, he’s terrified, but he can breathe because he’s fine. He’s fine and there’s nothing he can do about it. He wants to tear down this illusion of ‘fine’ and make himself writhe on the floor in piercing agony but he can’t because he’s fine.  


He hates himself, he hates himself. Take a knife, surge it in, again and again, watch yourself bleed just so you can feel alive before you throw the life away until you’re nothing because you’re nothing now. Nothing.  


It’s dark all over his hands and something is dripping. There’s wind tearing at his face and he should be out of breath, but he isn’t because he’s not. He’s simply not. A nonentity. He’s looking at his hands, but they aren’t his hands anymore, so he doesn’t exist.  


Dying, is this dying, or it this dead?  


Screaming, choking, crying, falling, he’s falling. Something wrenches within his gut and he’s crying out into the 3am mist, cold air rubbing against the back of his throat. He can breathe, he’s breathing, his knees are hitting something hard and rough, but he doesn’t care because he’s alive. And as his cries morph into something more ecstatic and his vision starts to darken at the rate of his breathing, he thinks, “Concrete. It was concrete.” And falls.  


Except this time he doesn’t mind the falling and welcomes the impact like an old friend, once missed but never truly forgotten. Dean breathes, he breathes air into his own lungs, flushing out the last traces of chills and nothingness. It takes a while, but he is content to complete the process with his face in the dirt. Just breathe.  


Breathe.  


In.  


Out.


End file.
